


Three times Stiles needs a musical distraction (and one time he doesn't)

by goodnight_tinyhumans



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, three times!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:11:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnight_tinyhumans/pseuds/goodnight_tinyhumans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles, well, he blames the ADD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three times Stiles needs a musical distraction (and one time he doesn't)

Stiles, well, he blames the ADD.

It’s not his fault that anything with a catchy beat and ridiculously inane lyrics gets caught in his head, it really _isn’t_ , and the way the entire pack turns to glare at him when he starts humming Call Me Maybe is just freaking unnecessary. Scott is used to him by now so he just rolls his eyes, but the others range from exasperation to almost-anger- surprise, surprise, because he has come to expect a bit of Derek Hale Alpha Rage no matter what he does. The guy lives in the burnt-out husk of a house in the middle of the woods with no TV, no computers; no radio even, obviously he’d have no idea what young folks these days listened to.

“If you’re going to wail like that, you might want to take it outside where those of us with taste can’t hear you,” Erica growled.

“Taste is entirely subjective,” Stiles begins, but there goes the flash of red eyes from the Grumpiest Little Alpha and Stiles just gives up while he’s ahead, turning back to the book he was reading to _oh yeah,_ probably help _save their collective lives_ , not that that matters to anybody.

He barely even notices five minutes later when he starts humming under his breath again and the look thrown at the back of his head by one Derek Hale is less annoyed than reluctantly fond.

\--

He normally doesn’t end up in the Jeep with just Derek. Yeah, it happens, but normally the guy can’t stand to be around Stiles for that long one-on-one without some serious growly, wall-slammy time, and Stiles’ self-preservation instinct _is_ at least that good, thank you. But for whatever reason, today Derek had ordered the betas into Scott’s car for their weekly trip out to whatever restaurant Erica chooses this week- and by ‘chooses’, Stiles means ‘bitches until everyone else goes along with it to shut her up’. Stiles doesn't normally mind; most of the guys' tastes seem to run more towards the McDonalds end of the spectrum- at least Erica likes some sort of variety in their collective diets. The team-building trips were partially Scott’s idea, surprisingly, and they’ve worked, sort of. Everyone’s still grouchy most of the time, but at least they’re all slightly less grouchy with each other- or at least less likely to rip each other’s throats out with their teeth.

In hopes of getting out of the car sooner, Stiles takes every shortcut he knows to get to the restaurant. What he forgets is that Scott, who knows the same shortcuts, is also not very considerate of Stiles’ feelings and apparently decided to take the longest route possible, which leaves Stiles sitting alone in a completely silent car with an equally silent Derek Hale. Stiles doesn’t _do_ silence; it’s not in his nature. So he really can’t help the twitching his knee does in time to the song that pops into his head, since he knows that humming or, god forbid, singing, would go over about as well as a lead balloon. It lasts for about a minute before he feels the warm, solid weight of a hand on his knee. Stiles turns to Derek with a jerk, surprised to see the alpha leaning back in his seat, eyes closed, and looking ridiculously relaxed. 

“Chill,” Derek orders, and it’s not like Stiles isn’t _trying_ , but Derek is understandably a very nerves-inducing sort of man and he can’t really help it. He tries, he really does, but he starts fidgeting again in no time flat, this time tapping long fingers against his knee. He’s tempted to just get the hell out of the car, stand outside like a loser, but before he can do more than think about leaving, Derek’s hand falls on his knee again, catching the tips of Stiles’ fingers under the weight of his palm, and this time he doesn’t move away after a moment; he just sits there, immobile, and somehow, the heat of Derek’s hand- even through the denim- gives Stiles a sort of anchor.

He doesn’t feel the need to move again until his phone rings.

Derek doesn’t even have the grace to look surprised at the One Direction song.

\--

Stiles’ main problem with homework isn’t the homework; it’s everything else. If he’s in his room, there are literally a thousand distractions for his poor little brain, both in the room (hey, sometimes the handles on his dresser just _need_ polishing, okay) and outside it (old Mrs. McCaffrey down the street has a thing about not bringing her dog in until she’s ‘sure’ he’s done his business, and the poor thing barks for fifteen minutes sometimes; his pack-mind makes him feel even sorrier for the little dude than usual). His answer when confronted with all these distractions, of course, is to out-manoeuver them, in the form of blasting his eardrums with music through the noise-cancelling headphones he begged his dad for last Christmas. Hey, if he can’t hear ‘em, he can’t be distracted by ‘em.

It works, and that’s what counts.

So it’s become a routine, and until recently, when certain supernatural beings started to drop by unannounced, it was a great routine. Tonight, though, he’s not expecting anyone, and he really just wants to get his homework done so he can maybe go to bed early and spend some quality time with himself (and definitely not with the image of a certain pair of wolfy red eyes behind his closed eyelids), so he’s cranked up the volume and gotten right to work.

As usual, he gets through about two thirds of it when he feels a warm hand resting on his back, the touch startling him enough that he whirls around, getting caught in his headphone cable and nearly falling off his chair before strong arms grab him and set him back in his place. And really, Stiles should be annoyed that Derek can practically toss him around like a rag doll, but by now he’s used to it (he’s also used to the tiny shiver that travels up his spine whenever Derek is all up in his grill, but that’s something he wouldn’t ever admit).

Derek scowls at him. “Why do you have to sing along with the most annoying ones?” He inquires with a sigh.

“I’ll have you know that David Guetta is a musical genius, and Nicki Minaj is… well, she’s easy on the eyes,” Stiles retorts.

Derek just glowers at him, and Stiles has to roll his eyes.

“What the actual hell do you need help with, Hale, and it better be freaking important because I was _busy_ ,” Stiles tells him.

“Oh, that yowling was you actually doing something?”

“That wasn’t a yowl, that was an extremely manly-”

“Verse originally sung by a woman, yes.”

They bicker for what feels like hours before lapsing into a comfortable conversation about absolutely nothing. Stiles doesn’t even notice that he never found out what Derek wanted until the alpha is gone, vanished out the window at the sound of the sheriff’s footsteps coming up the driveway.

\--

He loves Scott, he really does, the boy is a total peach, but if Stiles has to hear about all the virtues of a particular part of a particular Argent’s anatomy _one more time_ , he’s going to snap. And since a particular pack wouldn’t do too well without a particular second-in-command, Stiles makes an executive decision at approximately 5:03PM on a particularly chilly day.

Fifteen minutes later, Stiles decides that maybe leaving his coat at home was a stupid-ass decision and he probably should have thought this through a tiny bit better.

The woods make him calm, though, enough to forget his discomfort; he grew up in them, same as everyone in town, it’s hard to avoid it when the entire area is both full of and surrounded by trees. And there was always something about walking alone, surrounded by a silence that was comforting instead of deafening; full of its own little quirks rather than simply needing to be filled by whatever his brain could supply.

It was like an off-switch for his ADD, and that was something that was really hard to come by.

Stiles just wanders until he comes to the small clearing where he normally stops for a few moments whenever the mood struck him for a walk. The entire forest was full of gorgeous old trees, but the one dominating this clearing is Stiles’ favourite: it’s tall, it’s old, it’s strong, and it has a branch that’s perfect to lie down on and relax. He slips quickly up the trunk to settle onto the branch, bracing himself against the trunk so he isn’t likely to fall. He closes his eyes- just for a minute, he tells himself, turning his face toward the sun to soak up as much heat as he can.

Silence is _awesome._ He listens for a few more minutes, enjoying the peace and quiet; before a particularly cold breath of wind makes him shiver so hard he almost falls off his branch.

And almost falls off again a second later when he opens his eyes to find Derek nonchalantly sprawled across the end of his branch.

“What the f-” Stiles sputters. “How did I not hear you? Are you magic?"

Derek raises an eyebrow. “I’m a mythical creature, Stiles,” he replies drily. “I would assume there’s some sort of magic there.”

“Apparition is so not fair play,” Stiles mutters to himself, huddling as close to the trunk as he can, clutching his knees in front of his chest, and wishing very hard for anything that could drown out the sound of his heartbeat. He refuses to look up, not that he was ever really _shy_ , but did werewolves seriously have so little concept of personal time and private space that Derek felt it was okay to just materialize in front of him like some sort of dream-

Derek’s hand is suddenly braced against the trunk right next to Stiles’ head and _whoa_ , this is getting up there on Stiles’ list of ‘things that he never thought would happen but are really fucking interesting right this second’.

“What-”

“I was really enjoying the whole not talking thing,” Derek growls, before leaning forward and nuzzling Stiles’ neck.

Stiles. Just got. Nuzzled. By the sourest sour wolf to ever exist in Beacon Hills. Possibly the world, but at least Beacon Hills.

And he can’t believe he’s just noticing this but Derek smells like the forest, the way that autumn smells like the forest, likes leaves and smoke, and Stiles takes a deep breath.

Silence.

He closes his eyes, warm again despite the wind that curls around them, and he can feel where Derek is _ever so lightly_ touching him, can list the points of contact off in his head: hand, knee; forearm, shoulder; lips… Derek’s lips are resting torturously close to Stiles’, and he’s _smiling_ , the complete and total asshole. He can probably hear Stiles’ heartbeat ratcheting higher and higher every second and he’s enjoying just sitting there listening to it happen, but at the same time Stiles is calmer than ever because he’s focused on one thing.

His wolf.

His alpha.

His Derek.

Stiles turns his head, slowly, and opens his eyes.


End file.
